Author's note: Hey guys, I'm finally back, I simply couldn't find the time to update from too much work. I owe my readers a big thank-you for your constructive reviews which helped me develop a kind of Erik that I hope you will appreciate. You will notice the radical change in Meg as well, I didn't want to stick with the stereotypical Meg because I think she's a hidden gem, a wasted potential and a tragic figure who's shadowed by Christine. It's only understandable given Christine is one of the main characters, but I wanted to give Meg a special place in this chapter to twist the plot further. But this story is NOT an Erik/Meg pairing by any means and she will feature in only a couple or so chapters.
PhantomInMyDreams: First off, thank you for reading my work and reviewing. I should explain that I didn't write those detailed descriptions just for the poetic. Erik is a man who is totally ruled by passion and his raging fire is barely held in check by his tremendous willpower,and metaphorically speaking, this unhealthy restraint reflects sharply in his eyes which changes to suit his mood. : ) His eyes are indeed windows to his soul.
Now, on with the show!
Love sees sharply, hatred sees even more sharp, but Jealousy sees the sharpest for it is love and hate at the same time
-Arab Proverb
I want to feel passion, I want to feel pain. I want to weep at the sound of your name. Come make me laugh, come make me cry... just make me feel alive.
-Joey Lauren Adams
Meg Giry sat motionless on the floor, much like a statue, against the backdrop of gauzy black and grey curtains, the gossamer skirts of her lilac dress fanned out about her. Her straight ash blonde hair was brushed to a golden sheen, framing her doll-like face, cherry-dark painted lips pouted seductively, one pale eyebrow arched as her head was tilted back slightly, misty forest green eyes shining softly down at the faux human skull her hands clasped demurely in her lap, staring into the black void of its empty eye-sockets with an expression of longing.
Erik glanced up from his sketch book every few moments to glance at his young model –no more than seventeen-, posing in obedient stillness. He had lingered on the outline of the pale hands on the skull, noting their slight tremble. Eyes narrowed to grey slits as he continued to draw in apt concentration.
Every time Erik lifted his head to inspect the young ballerina with an academic eye, Meg was compelled to meet his gaze, reflexively so, thrillingly so.
A masked face of blank perfection, eyes narrowed in professional detachedness lost in his creation. Meg wondered if his face was drawn with the same intense lines when he composed and played his music,captured in a mask of ardent rapture, like a lover passionately caressing…darkly possessing.
Many nights were this masked face haunted her dreams, after lazy afternoons of modeling for his paintings and sketches, -rather a bizarre collection of his disturbingly morbid tendencies- or fetching his food and wine, for which she was rewarded with an hour's odd, yet blissful companionship that sometimes –only sometimes- ended with him telling her strange and fantasticalSlavic tales in that darkly soft and deep voice of his.
These moments delighted Meg, excited and provoked her own imagination to weave an illusory realm of villains and heroes of her own. Of all these Slavic fairy tales, one in particular stood in Meg's mind, the horrid Russian legend of Baba Yaga; the black goddess, ancient and fearsome bony crone with iron teeth. Which was faintly reminiscent of the story about the exceedingly wealthy, nameless French noble who had supposedly hauntedErik's cavern a century ago;a vengeful and lustful woman corrupted by greed and easy temptation; who bargained with the Devil to curse the vain object of her unrequited love to eternal damnation.
Erik called her the Queen of Spades for some strange reason, and as Meg stared into the faux skull that she so lovingly held in her hands, a slight shudder ran down her spine.The ghastly visage; the reminder of Death's ultimate supremacy, stripping one of all earthly chains and unmaking one's existence, did not bother her however. There was something else that ate away at her soul, that incited emotions of unknown nature.
Erik never played his music for her. Not a single note, not even a trifle humming. Since he had taken Christine under his wing in the guise of some celestial tutor, time spent in his company diminished to a mere half hour once a week. A frightening foe hounded her now.
Jealousy.
"Erik?"
The Phantom gave no indication of acknowledging for a few moments as his pencil moved deftly against the off-white parchment in brisk, elegant strokes.
Restless lips formulated the question that had been burning in her mind for a long time.
"Why do you never play for me, Erik?" Meg asked with a touch of sadness.
Erik sketched furiously, seemingly oblivious to the young girl's distress.
"Erik!" She demanded rather impatiently.
"Meg, you know I prefer absolute silence while I'm drawing. Now please cease your idle chatter so I can finish in peace." He said in a low voice.
"But this is important Erik…"
"No mademoiselle, irrelevant is the right word for it."
"That's not true." Meg's mouth creased in a frown.
Brief silence.Pencil scratching against the paper.
"You are enamored of Christine, aren't you?" Meg asked quietly. Slender fingers traced slowly over the skull's forehead.
Erik stiffened, his eyes fixed on Meg instantly…chillingly. "I think, my dear, this conversation is highly improper, and is therefore over." Scolded he, like a parent to a child.
Meg's eyes flared with a sudden green fire, fingers halted over the skull's left eye-socket.
"Oh, a thousand pardons! Forcing me to sit for hours in utter boredom for your personal amusement and serve you like an errand-girl isn't improper, but talking about your precious pupil is! There is no logic to your twisted sense of morality, Erik, or lack thereof!"
Meg instantly regretted her outburst, stricken with guilt; Christine was her best friend.She felt like a betrayer, a traitor.
Erik regarded the young Giry in mute anger, and finally broke the awful silence which had spoken for him for the past few minutes.
The sketch-book closed with an abrupt thud. Meg shifted her eyes away and bit her bottom lip nervously as he cut his stormy gaze on her. Being the target of his fury was like suddenly stepping into the hot furnace of the inferno.
She felt the edges of her soul getting singed by a white-hot fire.
Then, to her surprise, Erik's mouth curled into a cynical smile.
"I believe, you yourself are intimately acquainted with immorality, mademoiselle. Tell me, my dear Meg, does your mother know of your dirty little secret about a certain…shopping expedition?"
Though a reluctant uneasiness flickered in her eyes, Meg feigned indifference and surprise at the same time trying desperately to hold onto a rapidly crumbling composure.
"I don't know what you're implying…"
"I shall do you a favour, and remind you, my dear, of your little…rendezvous with Comte de Guillemot?"
My God…How can you possibly know…You never step out of the opera…
"I don't recall." Meg said stiffly.
Erik stood, his hands once more fitted in black leather gloves as he made his way over to her at a slow, languid pace.
"It seems I will have to further refresh your memory…"
Erik slowly circled her, his eyes fixed on her the whole time, burning her skin and sending goose bumps all over.
"I do seem to recall a vividly intimate kiss..." His voice lowered…sensually so.
Wishing it were your lips, you heartless bastard.
"…of giggling like a simple coquette while he filled your head with false promises… with the ardent enthusiasm of a common harlot,I might add."
Wishing it was your voice that was speaking those promises…even if they were false, I would have gladly allowed myself to be fooled…
"He only brought me a bouquet of flowers after the show like a true gentleman, what was I supposed to do? Why would I refuse his harmless attractions?
"No, of course not, why would you? While you can play the role of a perfect harlot, indeed, your performance was truly admirable, Meg. You seemed to be enjoying his amorous affections very much so." Erik purred darkly.
Meg's cheeks burned hot crimson.
"It's none of your business!"
"Just like my own personal life is none of yours." He concluded smoothly.
Meg, frustrated by the fact that he managed to elude her questioning about Christine, and at the same time turn the tables on her, was left speechless.
"In this case, however, it is my business, Meg. You will not see the Comte again.."
"What you're asking of me is perfectly ridiculous!" she protested feebly.
" I am not asking, I am simply giving you an order. An illicit dalliance with a married aristocrat is not only scandalous, but highly dangerous."
Meg was annoyed by his lecturing tone of voice, her anger overpowering her fear. She rose to her feet with an uncharacteristic clumsiness and stared up to the looming darkness that was Erik.
"I'm not your slave!"
"But you already are, my dear. If you value your health, you had better obey my commands." He drawled.
"Are your threatening me!"
"I believe I am, mademoiselle, and it's only for your own good. I shall not have you bring disgrace to your mother's good name."
He turned with a flourish of his cape, preparing to leave the empty dorm by whatever mysterious means he had in mind.
"Erik…" Meg called to him, hesitantly.
He glanced over his shoulder.
"How did you know I was with the Comte?"
Erik studied her for a quiet moment, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
"I didn't."
Christine woke up exactly at midnight. Witching hour. She needed all her energy for the gala of Hannibal tomorrow, but she slipped on her thin robe and grabbing a small gas-lamp, she tiptoed her way past Meg's bed, walking out into the darkened hallway. Opaque silence prevailed in the ballet dormitory.
She descended the stone staircase into the chapel, banishing the creeping darkness with her lamp,proceeding to light a candle by her father's plaque…
In this chapel where her Angel answered her prayers years ago, and since then had mentored her with his haunting voice; a perfect baritone that would put Muses to shame and evoke a variety of unfathomable feelings with his overbearing, phantasmal presence.
Seven years of white roses with a black ribbon.
Until now...
The white rose in the chapel had been replaced with a perfectly shaped, dark crimson one, the colur of congealed blood.
Around its stem was the black silk ribbon.
Candle light shone softly in the chapel's stained glass window, springing the cross-bearing angel to life with its gentle radiance.
His tender benevolence, his firm guidance…
Quietly she called into the darkness, her voice quivering.
"Come to me, Angel…"
Erik sat at his pipe organ, scribbling fervently the notes that had flooded his mind, conjured up by the vision of Christine Daae.
Christine.
For the past seven years, he had sat here before the pipe organ like this, breathing heavily the passions that assaulted his being over and over, demanding sweet release from the tension of her close proximity when he had tutored her.
It was torture like no other.
When he watched her from box five, world ceased to exist when Christine stepped onto the stage, her body bending and submitting with a unique grace to the music.
His heart ceased to beat when she stood so near, with dream-filled eyes searching the emptiness for a sign of her guardian.
His music was complete when their voices entwined.
Christine became his music.
He rose from his seat and walked up over to the heavy, purple-red velvet curtain behind which stood the monument to his heart's desire.
Drawing the curtain, he stared at the life-size mannequin fitted with a wedding dress of purest white silk and lace, ivory beads and shimmering pearls, with a grand veil of sheer white gossamer that waited to crown Christine's glorious auburn curls.
The bride of a false angel.
Erik traced his fingertip slowly over the mannequin's delicate brow line, primal grey eyes glittering with a fierce desire that left him shaking violently.
He had composed for her, bled for her, lived and died a thousand times over every night in that black swan bed, aching from love unfulfilled, dreaming of her lithe beauty tangled in the lustrous scarlet sheets.
Tangled in his dark fantasies.
His love...a fixed obsession for which he wouldn't hesitate to kill.
Parted lips uttered the words wrathfully… "You're mine!"
It was then, Erik heard a faint whisper echoing in the distance…like a quiet conformation of his blunt statement of possession.
"Angel…"
Meg's eyes fluttered open, she stirred sleepily beneath the covers and turned to her side, curling in a ball and sinking deeper into the blankets. It was only the beginning of Autumn, but already the cold had begun to torment her flesh with its icy touch.
Cold that was delight to Erik.
Erik.
She had to watch him love another whom she felt strong kinship to...
Wishing she could claim her place…
Nothing offered her comfort, no salve for her soul.
Meg looked over at Christine's bed, squinting in the moonlit darkness.
It was empty.
She screwed her eyes shut and seized by a dark impulse, prayed.
She knew God would never accept her sacrilege.
"Queen of Spades ..."
